Saturday, December 31, 2011

It is the end of the year. I will try to be brief in sharing my development over these three-hundred, sixty-five days.

I have earned double last year's income, both with the frequency of new clients and with the raise in rates.
I have graduated a two-year student.
I considered buying a historic hall, a former church, or a beautiful earth-friendly building.
I considered buying a house in Steamboat Springs.
I officially became a school.

I have found some time for the homeschooling community, and am not sure where this segment of my life will take me; I so prefer solitude.
I have taken on the education of a high school student on the fast track to becoming a pop star in a foreign country.
I have spent more money this year than any other on education.

I have made a friend of a family that gets along with mine.

I have spent three separate months attempting to write in an organized fashion.
I have written very little overall.

I have become a refuge and rescuer to people who need deeper than fair-weather friends.
I have been a home, a ride, a source of income, a shoulder to cry on and manual labor.

I have gained four dogs and lost three.

I have been to court twice, once for myself and once for a friend, one for each of the above two causes.

I have lost my grandfather to suicide--a controlling man of ailing health, he was also in control of his death.
I have retouched with my grandfather's family, and discovered he is not my blood relative.
I have paid off debts due to his generous bequeathal.
I am grateful, and I miss him.

I tread the ground I grew up upon for the first time in many many years.
I touched the trees, breathed the air, tasted the water, smelled the rain.
I let my sisters play with my hair because it made them happy to doll me up so.

I have played no music whatsoever.
I barely touched a wind instrument, fingered a keyboard, hummed a tune of my own devices.

I constructed a shed and deconstructed a fence.

I have made gifts, a schedule, and progress.

I look to the coming calendar year.

I see the second wedding anniversary, eight years after the original.
I'm thinking, New Orleans.

I see a library for home school curriculum.

I see more times my friends may need me, and hope there are no or few times I may need them.

I see my sister deployed to active duty, hopefully stateside, potentially in Europe, possibly in Afghanistan.

I see a house with fewer things, and more of the things we need.
I see new floors, a remodeled kitchen, and a proper artspace for the artist.

Mariah Carey
I love I found a soul singer I can sing along with. My sister got this on tape.

Braveheart.
I hate Mel Gibson. I hate that my last name is Wallace and everyone says, "Are you related to William Wallace, the guy from the movie?" However, it's really fun to make fun of.

Oklahoma City Bombing
OH MY GOD that was not good. Everyone was in shock. NO one could stop talking about it. I don't even watch Television and I can draw pictures from memory of the stuff they showed all over the media.

Dolly.
If they could clone a sheep, is anyone safe? Can we save our DNA and maybe live forever? Will my friends and I ever stop talking about dinosaurs? EVER?!?! Didn't we all see Jurassic Park? ISN'T THIS BAD?!

Friday, December 23, 2011

My friends say, it's remarkable how little drama I have in my life. But my local post office hates me and goes out of their way to make me miserable. Why? My dog bit the postman five months ago. I've been to court. I've paid everything. I've agreed to get a PO box for a year because they refuse to deliver to my house. I don't have the dog anymore.

I'm heartbroken for losing the dog I tried so hard to rescue (another story for another day). My sentence for owning a dangerous dog has been deferred for 1 year, should there be no additional incident, so I get all panicked when I don't see my dog in the back yard. If the county picks up my little dog the escape artist, I could go to jail for a year and pay upwards of $2000 in additional fines. This feeling is recurrent. Further, my son is extremely sensitive about having the dog taken away from us. Occasionally he comes in and climbs into my lap and cries, spontaneously.

The Post Office tells me they'll hold my mail. When I go in, they've sent it back. I fill out another hold order, and they lift it after I pick up my mail twice even though I told them not to, and they send my mail back again. I open a PO box and fill out the forwarding information, but the system is slow and a weeks worth of mail gets returned--again. The people are rude. They tell me I deserve it because of what my dog did. They tell me I'm a bad guy.

I would love to stop using the Post Office. As a personal protest, not as a political statement. I think they're a valuable part of the United States infrastructure, vital, in fact. So I feel terrible when I find myself glad they're having problems and a sketchy future.

I don't have constant drama, but if I were a TV show, you'd have to explain the backstory to an episode to someone who hasn't been following all season.

Every time I have to go get the mail, every time I have to mail something, every time I see my mailbox, I have to breathe deeply to keep from crying. Seriously. They took away, locked up in a punishing cell, and killed my dog for this. Why should the Post Office continue to retaliate? Will it end after a year? Will it end only when I move? Should I be finding myself considering buying a new home and moving to escape the treatment of the Postal Workers?

Thursday, December 01, 2011

I have this love-hate relationship with words--I could put together everything I've ever written about the ability or inability to write.

I know every detail of the English language. But I don't mind if you break the rules, make up a new word, jumble your grammar a bit.

I write because when I speak no one listens, and when I write, no one listens either but at least I can go back and read it and revel in what I have the ability to say. If I speak it aloud, it's gone. Though, then I think of my dad and his musing that sound waves are energy and cannot disappear, but get infinitely weaker, so if we had the technology we could listen to Abe Lincoln as he spoke at Gettysburg. Or me, in high school, reciting these words spoken at Gettysburg.

I made a friend who claimed me as an Author. I decided to accept the post but I really can't let you know anything I've authored, truly.

I am connecting--possibly, finally--to a person I have always admired but has left me with the perpetual insult that maybe wasn't supposed to be at the time, when she looked at my business card and said, "so you're proficient at everything?" and I had to answer yes, as if I thought it were true, but to answer no would not be true, and now I have to carry that with me infinitely. For her, I must be proficient at everything, and she rarely gives me the time of day.

I am proficient at everything but fiction--I reached a mere half my writing goal for this month.

I don't like when people are recorded sounding like they are not well-spoken. I don't like people who are not well-spoken. I don't like when I read poorly written communications, and I don't like it when people know I don't like what they've tried to write. Seriously, if you can't handle the idea that you could always be better, how can you ever improve? Do you like stasis?

Stasis. That's where I am--I am a writer who writes the same things now that I've been writing for years and years.

Like Shakespeare or the guy who wrote the stuff attributed to Shakespeare, whichever ends up being true, I want to have measurable growth over the course of my career as a writer, but I don't trust that that will happen, so I expect that will never truly have a career as a writer.

I don't like musicians who are bad at what they do. I don't like politicians that are easy to make fun of. I don't like when people decide labels for me, because they are inevitably wrong. I can always prove a label wrong.

I don't like when people say they can't write, but often I can't write so it's a hell of a struggle.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

If I see you, am reminded of you, notice you in any way, you become permanently part of me. Of my novel. Whether this novel is something I ever look at again, or anyone else will look at, you are a part of my repertoire. The description of you I used, the characteristics I found fascinating, these will remain with me always. There is no one in the background.

You cannot be a wallflower in my life if I am writing. Today, I am writing.

I find you beautiful. I find your dress absurd, but your face, your hair--nothing goes unobserved. I love your braid. I don't like your lip color. I like the way you shape your words with your mouth.

I like the pattern on the sole of your shoe, the volume of your voice, the look on your face while you think about the person on the other end of the cell phone call. I like your kid, though he needs a haircut, because his smile is stunning.

I especially like your boyfriend. But my character is looking for a woman. So I don't have much to do with your boyfriend; at least, I promise I won't say anything too nice about him.

I like the sound that's made when the mug you bumped hit the floor, and the nervousness that's in your voice while you clean it up and people walk in looking down at you.

I like the shrill condescension in your voice as you talk to the girl behind the counter as if her coworkers are her pets.

I like the look you gave your husband after he watches the girl in the tights, high boots, and tiny skirt walk by.

So if you want to talk to me, or show up in my vicinity, behave yourself. Because if you don't, your antics may stay forever as an extension of my imagination.